


Your Best Shot

by walfs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walfs/pseuds/walfs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn’t know when Derek actually pulls the bullet out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Best Shot

The rogues were trigger-happy; if they actually tailed him here then things would've been a lot worse by now.

It's hard to listen for footsteps or track down a threatening scent when all of his senses are getting drowned by the roar of his own heartbeat so Isaac gives up on it quickly. The weight of Stiles' body as it sags, his matted and bloodied shirt sticking against Isaac's palm, definitely gets higher priority, anyway.  
  
He takes the stairs two at a time, torn between keeping Stiles steady against him and jostling him around just so he'll make some noise, complain a bit, because Stiles hasn't said anything in at least ten minutes and Isaac would be a lot more impressed if he would just stop bleeding.  
  
"Derek!" Isaac hollers. The lack of response from the noise he'd made clattering through the door and down the steps is frightening. The hunters couldn't already have--  
  
"Derek!"  
  
Erica's head pokes out from one of the openings in a subway car, hair pulled up in a messy bun and only half of her eyeshadow in place. She looks irritated, but otherwise fine. The hunters hadn't-- she has a-- a date tonight. Right.  
  
Well, not anymore.  
  
"I thought our Lord Alpha said to stop bringing your forest munchies home--" Isaac shifts himself into the glow of an overhanging light and she immediately changes to a new tone with only a minor hitch in her voice. "Stiles!"  
  
Isaac pulls away from the prying hands as Erica starts checking them both over, laying Stiles out on a table once Erica knocks the clutter on it to the floor with a quick sweep of her hand. Stiles’ skin is frighteningly pale, and the splatter of blood on his face isn't doing much to help him look alive. The wound needs to be treated, and the bullet is still in there so it has to be removed, but Isaac has no idea how to do that without accidentally killing him. Hospitals are out of the question, too.  
  
"Is he...?"  
  
"I don't-- I don't know. He's breathing. That's." He’s losing his cool, and Erica is just as panicked beside him. He can feel her heart drumming up faster and faster, overwhelming, drowning out the low thump of Stiles’ shallow pulse. Isaac takes a deep breath and hopes he sounds calmer when he opens his mouth again. "Call Derek. We have to call Derek. He'll know what to do."  
  
Erica makes a pained noise, her phone already pressed to her ear. "I did, about twenty minutes ago. Said something about catching a scent and--"  
  
The loud  **CRASH!**  of the door startles both of them. It's almost reflexive, the way they slide in front of the table, their eyes glowing and fangs bared as they snarl out a warning call to whoever’s trespassing in their home. A familiar scent (pine trees, dirt, sweat; the bitter and ever-present undertone of ash) stops their transformation before any fur starts to sprout.  
  
"Derek!"  
  
\---  
  
Everything hurts.  
  
His side is throbbing and wet, neither of which are very good signs of health, and Stiles can actually feel where the bullet is still lodged inside of him. His brain sluggishly hurls information about gunshot wounds at him, the damage they can cause from more than just blood loss. It doesn't feel like he's slowly dying of internal bleeding, no convulsions, so it's probably just nestled in soft tissue or muscle instead of in any of his organs. Lucky him.  
  
Still, Stiles is reserving the right to complain about this-- more than fair considering he was shot with a goddamn mystery bullet-- because high on the scale of shit that needs to be dealt with ASAP though his bullet wound may be, Stiles can’t stop the rush of panic that floods through him when he realizes that he can't move. At all. God, it’s like the mechanic incident all over again.  
  
There are voices nearby, familiar but unrecognizable. They sound a bit frantic. He strains to clear his head, make sense of the jumble he’s hearing so he has something to work with, but his ears are filled with cotton. Just when he thinks his eyes are cutting him a break by opening easily, his vision starts to swim.  
  
Whatever he’s against is steady, pressed firm against his back, but it feels like he's falling.  
  
Fuck, everything hurts.  
  
Stiles is about ready to say the hell with it all and just pass out when the pain in his side jumps from a throbbing burn all the way up to a searing one. It feels like his side is on fire, the pain licking along his skin; he can't even writhe, can't escape from it, because his body is fucking paralyzed.  
  
The blanket over his senses lifts away.  
  
He still can't move, but when his eyes snap open Stiles can see the cracked and filthy ceiling of Derek's makeshift lair (hideout? den?) with ridiculous clarity, and the overhead light cuts into his eyes like a blade. The nearby voices are recognizable now-- Erica, Isaac, Derek, where the hell is Boyd?-- but they're also deafeningly loud. His ears are ringing so badly that Stiles wonders if it's possible to emulate the 'shatter glass with your voice' trick but with his fucking head instead.  
  
"Shut up!" is what he means to say. His mouth apparently has other things in mind because his words die before they even get to his tongue. His throat feels raw, constricted, and coated with the coppery taste of blood. He really has no defenses left.  
  
The pain mixes with his flooding panic, and all he manages to do is choke out a half-whimper before everything turns black.  
  
\--  
  
The dark nothing of unconsciousness is surprisingly comfortable. You could hang out there and avoid dreams, pain, anxiety; it’s just a pretty nice place to relax while your life did that shitty existing thing back in the real world. Stiles is pretty reluctant to leave; unfortunately, there's work to be done. Can't stay here forever.  
  
As his Zone Of Zen shrinks away and his mind reboots, Stiles feels the pain creep back into existence. It's not as bad as before, but it's still a bullet wound. Meant for a werewolf. He’s definitely starting to regret his self-employment in wolfsitting.  
  
And now his cheek is throbbing, too. Perfect.  
  
Stiles peeks through a tiny slit between his eyelids, slowly cracking them open when the light doesn't send him spiraling into another fit. There are shadows hanging over him, a voice droning in his ear.  
  
He closes his eyes, inhales slowly, and tries again.  
  
"--what’ll happen so stay awake this time!" Derek is yelling. His scowling face swims into focus as Stiles' vision settles back to normal. Probably missed a big part of Derek's hissy fit, but nothing new there. Stiles’ cheek throbs again.  
  
"Did you punch me?" His voice sounds foreign, hoarse and cracked, like it's been broken, but he doesn't remember doing any screaming. He hopes he didn't do any screaming. That’d be both embarrassing and sucky.  
  
“Worked when I got shot,” Derek huffs.  
  
Stiles... actually has to stop and think back to what time Derek’s even talking about. Over the course of time and their growing packhood, Derek’s been shot a lot more than Stiles wants to think about. And stabbed. And poisoned. And electrocuted. And a variety of other harmful things. Like, fuck, he’s even had to pull shrapnel from Derek’s bleeding almost-corpse with a fucking pocket knife before.  
  
Finally, the memory comes back. That time with the bullet and Scott ignoring his freaking texts and nearly having to amputate Derek’s arm or face decapitation by claw. Good times. It couldn’t have been more than a year since then but it still feels like so long ago, and “You didn’t kill me for that,” is what he settles for.  
  
“I owed you. A lot, actually,” Derek says. There’s something in his voice that Stiles is too tired to figure out, but it’s soft and soothing, which is a refreshing change from the usual growl. “After this, I think we can call it even.”  
  
\---  
  
The plan is horrible and grotesque and five hundred other synonyms that Stiles can’t be bothered to think of right now; includes less actual tools for proper surgery and skirts more along the lines of Derek fishing the slug out himself. A part of him is ready to protest until they take him to Deaton, someone with proper medical equipment at least, but Stiles can feel another wave starting to build. They need to get it out before then because it’s only going to get worse the longer it’s left there, and leaving a semi-safe area while there are still hunters prowling isn’t a smart idea.  
  
There just isn’t time but goddamn, he so doesn’t want to do this.  
  
“It’s gonna hurt, Stiles,” Derek warns. “A lot.”  
  
What else is new?  
  
The claws come out at his nod, easily slicing through his shirt, but they pause over his still bleeding wound. Stiles has to swallow a few times before he can find his voice.  
  
“Do it,” he croaks.  
  
A hand wraps around his wrist, and Stiles blames the slow onset of fuzz that precedes these attacks for why he’s so distracted by it.  
  
“You, uh.” Isaac stops, clears his throat. Stiles’ attention is caught between the almost anxious look on his face and the shrug of his shoulder as he searches for whatever he has to say. That’s when Stiles notices the belt. “You might want to use this.”  
  
The atmosphere in the room practically screeches to a halt.  
  
It’s a pretty nice belt, all things considered. Probably made of good, quality leather. Goes well with the official Hale Pack Leather Jackets™. Does a decent job of holding up Isaac’s pants, or so Stiles assumes since he hasn’t seen or heard of Isaac accidentally mooning (ha) anyone. Stiles doesn’t particularly want it in his mouth, though.  
  
Isaac clears his throat again, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. “Trust me. You’re gonna want it.”  
  
After a quick glance at the other two-- Erica, biting her lip, eyes occasionally flickering with gold; and Derek, jaw clenched tight in silent anger-- Stiles inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and opens his mouth.  
  
\---  
  
Stiles isn’t given any kind of warning before Derek starts excavating the bullet out of Stiles’ body.  
  
With his nails.  
  
The first wave of pain rolls up, hitting him hard, and Stiles gasps, head tipping back in pain and belt forgotten as it slips from his open mouth. Something is on his face; warm and smooth, almost cradling his head.  
  
The pain is blinding.  
  
Distantly, he can hear someone screaming.  
  
Hands. Hands are on his face, forcing his head straight, shoving something in his mouth-- the belt, he forgot the belt-- and when the next wave hits Stiles bites down. It doesn’t do much to muffle him, but it does give him something to ground himself with. It’s just unfortunate that his sense of taste is heightened too, because Stiles can taste the stale sweat on this thing, salty and a bit grimy. (Having to deal with this custom flavor is a lot better than biting his tongue off on accident, but that’s not gonna stop him from wishing he didn’t have to.)  
  
With the next spike comes another set of hands, pressing down with enough force that he’ll probably be bruised, on his shoulders this time. Stiles doesn’t get why the sudden use of force is necessary.  
  
Another hand starts pushing on his torso, near the wound, and it’s right around then that Stiles realizes he isn’t paralyzed anymore. In fact, he’s about as far from paralyzed as he can get. The burn is steadily growing stronger, shooting higher each time, and it’s hard to get his body to stay still when his entire body is on fire. He just wants to get away, but they’re holding him still, digging deeper, and it won’t stop, the pain, why won’t it stop--  
  
Stiles doesn’t know when Derek actually pulls the bullet out. Everything is jumbled and his head is caught up in a sensory overload of epic fucking proportions, but finally, finally, it’s out.  
  
The pain tapers down until Stiles’s body sags heavily against the table, twitching sporadically; the belt sliding free from his slack jaw and leaving a wet trail down his cheek and chin. It’s either drool or tears (or more likely both), but he really doesn’t care about how disgusting he must look, snotty and bloody and filthy, sprawled in a shaking heap on their termite-mauled table.  
  
Isaac was so very right about the belt thing.  
  
(Stiles doesn’t want to think about why.)  
  
\--  
  
Waking up is easier this time.  
  
He’s a lot drier and cleaner than he remembers being, and also shirtless, which is kind of new development for him because while he isn’t ashamed of his body, Stiles doesn’t really make it a habit to lay around half-naked. Especially not since he started hanging around ego-crippling werewolves with their bodies sculpted by the gods.  
  
Derek, speak of the devil, is actually hovering nearby, arms crossed over his chest and jaw clenched. There’s probably another rant formulating in that veiny, throbbing head of his.  
  
“You keep bottling and your head’ll explode,” Stiles croaks out. No sense in pretending to sleep around Derek-- super senses and all that-- so he might as well just get the ‘how many times are you going to get hurt before you stay back, puny human’ speech over with.  
  
“The bullet was laced with a special toxin that heightens senses,” Derek says. He sounds more stressed than angry. Surprised but not stupid enough to interrupt the information, Stiles keeps quiet. “It’s rare, originally made for catching instead of killing. As long as the bullet’s in you, your body’s fed that toxin. A werewolf has two days before the overstimulation to their senses kills them, maybe less depending on where it hits. Assuming they survive, there’s also a high chance of going insane.”  
  
Stiles thinks back to his talk with Scott after the first awkward family dinner with the Argents, the story about the rabid dog that Mr. Argent told, about having to put it down before it could hurt anyone. Not for the first (and probably last) time, Stiles is very glad he’s not a werewolf. His body is sore, but at least his chances of skipping out on the long-lasting damages portion of this mess are higher. If Stiles hadn’t gotten in the way, if Isaac had actually taken the bullet instead--  
  
Stiles pales, chilled down to the bone.  
  
“Don’t think about it.”  
  
“Too late.”


End file.
